


Tasteless

by Ol_Dirty_Sock



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Rimming, Slight Dom/sub power play, oh jeez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7153064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ol_Dirty_Sock/pseuds/Ol_Dirty_Sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John 5 licked my asshole for real!”</p><p>That’s it. That’s the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tasteless

**Author's Note:**

> Mechanical Animals era. 100% fiction. For the purposes of this story Manson’s butt is not a portal to the land of nightmares.

“Lick it, it’ll be funny.” Brian looked backwards over his shoulder and pulled at his black g-string with his index finger, then let it snap back into place. If it stung, he didn’t let on, his bright red lips curled into a shiny patent-leather leer. He turned and glanced at the mirror, checking the carefully arranged mess that was his hair one last time, and headed for the door.

John knew Brian was just taunting him before they went onstage, after yet another fight that wasn’t really a fight (or was it?) Because under the social commentary and intellectual bluster, Brian was still immature enough to think butts were really funny, and he was also savvy enough to know just where to prod people to put them on edge. John had lost his patience with Brian again and while they were trading barbs he’d mentioned that all that homoerotic posturing felt a bit cheap and played out, and Brian shot back that he could always push it further if John was bored.

That scintillating conversation would have to wait, however. It was time to be a professional, and John followed the singer. The harsh stage lights highlighted the pallor of his skin against his glittering costume. Brian bent over and swayed, he shoved his hand down his pants, he bumped and thrusted, he stroked his ass crack, and while this was nothing out of the ordinary, John couldn’t help but think that tonight the display was aimed specifically at him. When Brian sunk down to his hands and knees and pantomimed fucking some invisible presence, John shot a pointed look at him as their eyes connected. Brian grinned back.

They finally met in the middle of the stage, putting on their little show as usual. Brian straddled John’s chest and settled down with his rear jutted in John’s face, and John stroked his body, the audience hooting and cheering the whole time. As Brian moved to get back up, John wrapped his hand around his bony hip. _I’ll show you what’s funny._ He shoved the tiny strap of fabric keeping Brian’s ass technically clothed aside and leaned up. 

He suppressed a laugh when he heard a small gasp die in Brian’s throat and felt his entire body tense up in shock as the tip of his tongue quickly swiped at Brian’s asshole.

It wasn’t bad.

There was surprisingly little reaction from the crowd, likely because the awkward position they were in had hidden exactly what just transpired. The show went on as usual, and time felt artificially sped up as John rode a wave of adrenaline and triumph. But afterwards Brian dashed at him faster than anyone in platform disco heels should have been able to, and grabbed him by the arm. “You little shit,” he hissed into John’s ear. He dragged the guitarist into his dressing room, slamming the door behind them and pausing for a split second to catch his breath. Wordless, he peeled off his outfit and threw it aside, then hopped up on the vanity table and leaned back against the mirror, legs spread, still wearing his sparkly boots and gloves. John stared. Brian glowered at him as if expecting something, panting through gritted teeth.

“What?” said John, taking a tentative step back towards the door. He was only half playing dumb.

“Get over here,” Brian snapped. As soon as John was within his reach, he shoved him down on his knees and planted one boot on John’s shoulder, holding him captive, his face level with Brian’s crotch. “That was fun for you, huh?”

“I was just doing what you said,” John replied, failing to completely squelch his smirk. “You’re the boss.”

Brian nudged John’s head closer, then squirmed forward. “Finish what you started,” he said, apparently all too happy to accept that he was the boss, or maybe just too riled up to pick up on sarcasm right now.

John blinked. He really hadn’t expected it to go this far.

But there was no turning back. He couldn’t let Brian win, wouldn’t let himself become the punchline. He steeled himself, exhaling deeply, and settled his face between Brian’s legs, chin resting on the very edge of the table.

Brian sucked in a quick breath and made an odd little _huhhh_ noise as John’s tongue made contact with his flesh again. The guitarist kissed his inner thigh, wet and soft and sloppy, moving up towards the juncture of his legs, where Brian’s hand already hovered, hesitantly stroking himself behind his balls with his first two fingers. John pushed his hand aside and tried to reach but couldn’t get himself quite adjusted.

Brian shoved John back, eyes still squinted shut. He slowly slid himself off the table, grasping for balance, legs shaking under him, and John felt a flash of heat hit his face and wash over his body as he stared at Brian’s cock, swollen and jutting out obscenely between his paper-white legs.

The singer lowered himself face-down on all fours and gestured at John without looking at him, blank eyes fixed on the floor while his breath came out in ragged waves. John didn’t need to be ordered twice. He knelt down behind Brian and picked up where he left off, easier now in this position. He felt a hand ruffle through his hair, clumsy and almost panicked. It made a small shove at the back of his head, and then left as quickly as it came. He resumed prodding the tip of his tongue at Brian’s asshole, teasing around it in circles. Brian let out a loud, wavering sigh as he exhaled and thrust back, almost knocking John over. John took it in stride and latched onto one of Brian’s thighs for balance, licking a long, slow streak up from his balls, making him shudder.

John smothered his face as far into Brian’s ass as he could, enveloping with his lips and jabbing at the entrance with his tongue in wet, twisting thrusts. Brian gave up any remaining illusion of strength or dignity and flopped his shoulders down, his face resting sideways on the floor, one hand furiously jerking himself off while the other rested by his head, fingers curling and uncurling rhythmically as a deep, strangled noise built up in him.

Breathing was difficult and John felt dizzy both from the lack of air and the effect he was having on the other man, the thrill of calling Brian’s bluff and reducing him to this desperate shambles. He seized one half of Brian’s ass, gripping hard enough to turn his fingers white, freeing up his other hand to unzip his pants and grab at his own cock, twitching and aching with a hungering warmth.

John continued until he thought the arm holding him up would give out and his jaw might snap. But the end was in sight; Brian whined harder and he felt the ring of muscle flutter and then clamp as Brian’s body shook. “Ohh... _fuck_...ohhh.” Brian bucked up against John one last time, then went slack. John gave his dick a couple more careless tugs and then groaned as he unlatched from Brian’s body and rolled back on his haunches, quivering and numb, heart pounding while he spilled all over his hand.

Brian appeared stuck in his pose, which had seemed so beautifully raw and inviting a few moments ago, and just looked ridiculous now that the heat had dissipated with their release. Brian’s lower half was still bent up in the air, right in John’s face. John gave it a slap, a bit harder than he meant to, and the harsh sound bounced off the flimsy walls. His ass was too skinny to have the effect John was hoping for, as there wasn’t much of anything there to jiggle, but the how-dare-you look on Brian’s face as his head jolted backwards more than made up for it.

He rolled over onto his back and with a sullen, droopy-eyed look, scraped at the fresh stain on the floor with his boot, grinding it into the carpet. John winced at how well the pattern concealed it and promptly banished that train of thought before it could get rolling. After blinking a few times, Brian gestured towards a nearly-full bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the table. “Wash your mouth out. Kill the germs.” He paused and frowned. “Don’t actually put your mouth _on_ it.”

John scrambled to his feet and attempted to pour some in without making contact. He failed and sputtered as it splashed his face, and then laughed, which made him choke and spit even more. Brian snorted along with him when he tried to collect himself, leaning against the chair and sliding back to the floor, then went suddenly quiet again.

“John?”

“Hmm?” He perked his head up to look at Brian, who was still lying with his eyes closed, hand laid on his chest as if he’d just had a heart attack.

“Not one fucking word about this to anyone.”

“Of course not,” said John.

Naturally, the next day, John barged in only to find Brian cheerfully announcing to the crew filming the tour that John had, in fact, licked his asshole. 

_You little shit._

Brian’s eyes narrowed as the cameraman’s attention turned to John, no doubt full of deep questions about Marilyn Manson’s world-famous ass. He smiled wide, ready to sing its backhanded praises.


End file.
